Edward moved around behind his desk. “Is that letter of particular interest?”
“An invitation to a party at the home of Lord Beauchamp, sir. One event that is essential for you to attend.”
“How do you know what it is? The letter is sealed.”
“Lord Latham stopped by last night.”
“I see.” He shook his head, sitting down at the desk.
Wren Latham had been his closest friend of more than two decades. A member of Parliament from Yorkshire, Wren was determined to have Edward give up his commission, retire from the Navy, and run for a seat. After he received a shoulder wound that continued to plague him, his father, Admiral Seymour, had made the same suggestion. But these were decisions that Edward was not ready to make.
Reeves put the invitation in front of him. “The guest list includes other influential members of Parliament. Perhaps it would be best not to think of it as a social event, but as an investment of your time in a future career, Captain.”
Edward picked up the envelope and studied the seal. Beauchamp’s fortune came from his vast investments in shipping and his family connection with Queen Victoria, herself. Not a person to snub, certainly.
He glanced at the pile of other invitations that sat ignored in the corner of his desk. Amelia’s elopement might seem scandalous to the Seymour family, but London society was ignoring the blunder. At least for now . . . and until the rest of the truth was discovered. Somehow, he had to find the right words to break the news to the old man. He knew he needed to appease the admiral at the same time, when actually all he wanted to say was that he wanted his niece back alive and well, regardless of any mistake she might have already made.
Edward tossed the sealed invitation on the unanswered pile and began to write.
“To Admiral Alexander Seymour, Commander-in-Chief of the East Indies Fleet and China.”
CHAPTER 7
No one knew she’d been gone. No one heard her when she got back. Sophy was more than happy to hide her exhaustion, show up in the kitchen before being called, and offer to do morning chores. She was eager to please.
“We have very important guests coming this morning,” Mrs. Tibbs told her. “The benefactors have expressed an interest in speaking with you.”
Three girls were already working in the kitchen, and Sophy didn’t miss their quick exchange of looks at the mention of the visitors’ wishes.
“Wash up and make yourself presentable.” The matron looked down at the dirty hem of Sophy’s dress. “Now how could you get so much dirt on a dress that you’ve been wearing for only a day?”
Luckily, the matron had more important things to attend to than waiting for an answer.
“Go upstairs and tell Maddie to loan you her black Sunday dress. Hurry, girl. Mr. Dickens is an early riser and they might already be on their way here.”
The older woman turned away and Sophy hurried upstairs.
The girl Maddie was not in her room, and Sophy looked into a couple of other rooms, asking for her. The girls ignored her.
By the time Sophy had brushed out and pinned her hair up neatly, there was still no sign of Maddie. The sound of voices downstairs told her that the esteemed guests had arrived.
“Downstairs. Now. Tibbs is calling for you,” Julia, another resident, stuck her head into the bedroom, conveying the message curtly before running back downstairs.
Sophy found the black woolen dress among Maddie’s meager belongings and put it on. The dress was too large in the waist and chest, and the length was too short. The coarse neckline scratched her skin. She stole a hasty glance in the mirror, and a stranger stared back.
“Sophy,” Julia hissed from the stairs, coming back up.
“I’m on my way,” she said, hurrying after the other woman.
“Maddie will kill you for stealing her dress,” Julia warned, looking sideways at her clothing.
“I didn’t steal the dress. Mrs. Tibbs said to borrow it.”
When the two of them stepped into the parlor, the conversation ceased and everyone’s gaze turned to her. The awkward silence filled the room. Four of the girls, dressed in their colorful—albeit identical—frocks, stood beside Mrs. Tibbs against the bookcase. There were three guests. Two elegantly dressed women were seated on the sofa by the window. A man of medium height and build and wearing a fashionable gray suit was holding court in the center of the room. Though standing at ease, the gentleman conveyed a sense of barely constrained energy, like a coiled spring or a hunting dog pulling at his leash.
“Mr. Dickens, this is Sophy,” the matron announced. “This is the young woman about whom I have been writing to you.”
Julia hurried away and joined the other girls by the bookcase. Sophy curtsied and considered joining the others, but there was no room.
“You may all go now,” the man addressed as Mr. Dickens said, dismissing the girls. His eyes never left Sophy’s face, though, and she felt a power of observation in those eyes that she had never encountered before. “We’d like to have a few words with you, Sophy, if you please.”
It was obvious that the rest took offense at being asked to leave, but none dared voice it. The room was too small for so many, and Sophy backed out to allow the others to leave first. This put her out of the sight of the guests and vulnerable to those leaving.
“Ye’ll be paying for this,” one whispered to her face.
“Ye think ye are better than us?”
Julia tried to kick her in the shin. Another came close, shouldering Sophia back into the hall. The angry glares were enough to tell her she was already considered a villain. Any other time and she would try at least to reason with them, but right now she only wanted to make a good impression on the guests. She’d seen enough behind that tavern at Hammersmith Village last night to know how important it was to have a decent roof over her head and a bed to sleep in.
She stepped back into the room and crossed over to stand next to Mrs. Tibbs. Everyone’s attention remained riveted on her.
“Sophy. Sophia,” Mr. Dickens repeated. The man’s gaze was intense, but there was a hint of kindliness in the face, as well. He studied her critically for moment. “Do you have a last name?”
“I am certain I do, sir. But, as you undoubtedly know, my memory has failed me at present.”
“Do you know where you come from?”
“No, sir.”
“Your age?”
“No, sir.”
“I am told that your first recollection is that of being in the river.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you claim that someone helped you out of it?”
Sophy was uncomfortable with the sharp questioning. Regardless of having seen twice, there was no way she was going to admit to anything that might cause others to consider her crazy.
“I do not clearly recall everything that I said that first night. I was told I sustained a blow to my head. I do not believe I was thinking or speaking clearly then.”
“Well, was there someone who helped you out of the river?”
“I can say,” Sophy said firmly, “that I swam to shore by myself.”
“And how did you get a blow to the head?”
“Mr. Dickens, are you going to introduce us?” The younger of the two women sitting on the sofa broke in, her tone congenial, but she had the air of a person not accustomed to being ignored.
The gentle reprimand was a blessing. Dark hair, regal face, attractive, impeccably dressed, there was no question she was the guest of honor and the other lady a companion. Dickens bowed graciously, almost theatrically, Sophy thought.
“Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts, the benefactor of Urania Cottage. And Mrs. Brown, her friend. May I present Sophy.”
Another curtsy.
Eavesdropping on conversations this morning, Sophy had learned a great deal of the background of the benefactors. Mr. Dickens was a successful novelist and his name was familiar to her. Miss Burdett-Coutts had inherited about three million pounds of her
grandfather’s money some ten years ago, making her the richest woman in England. What was most interesting to Sophy was that even the girls at this house sang her praises, for all the money she gave to poor. This was the first time Miss Burdett-Coutts was visiting the Cottage. Dickens, it appeared, was in charge of all things, as this was his idea and his charity project. To live here, one had to be chosen by the novelist himself.
Miss Burdett-Coutts whispered something to her friend, and then Mrs. Brown spoke.
“Avez-vous parler français?”
“Oui, madame.”
“Êtes-vous parler couramment le français?”
“Je ne sais pas, Mrs. Brown.” Regardless of understanding what was being asked, Sophy didn’t know if she was fluent in French or not, so she answered honestly. Mrs. Brown didn’t relent, though, and asked several more questions in French about Urania Cottage, and whether Sophy had found any friends among the girls living here. Sophy hesitated in telling the truth, and instead offered information having to do with whom she shared her room and who had loaned her this dress.
Sophy noted Mrs. Brown’s slight nod of approval.
“We’ve heard about your reading and penmanship,” Miss Burdett-Coutts said next. “Can you draw, Sophy?”
She hesitated. “I really don’t know, miss.”
“Do you play any instruments?”
“I am sorry to be a disappointment in my answers. But I honestly did not remember if I knew even a word of French until Mrs. Brown spoke to me. And the same holds true of reading and my penmanship. Each thing that I try is . . . well, somewhat of an adventure.”
Once again, there was a moment of silence as everyone just stared. Sophy held her chin high, her spine straight.
The two ladies shared a private whisper before Miss Burdett-Coutts motioned to Dickens. Crossing to her, he bent down and they exchanged a few words. Sophy dared a glance at Mrs. Tibbs. She was stone-faced and only stared at her employers. Dickens straightened up and stood beside the couch.
“Mrs. Tibbs tells us,” he said, “that you are concerned about finding a place to live, considering your present state of mind.”
“Yes, sir. That is true. I don’t know if, in the past, I have ever worked, or even considered working.” She paused. “But I intend to find employment as soon as I am able to take inventory of what I might be qualified to do. Until then, however, I am at a loss as to how I shall live.”
The man studied her for a few long moments. She felt like he was trying to look directly into her soul. She could not make up her mind about the novelist. She could not decide if he approved of her or even believed what she said about her loss of memory.
“You clearly have more training than many tutors I might engage to teach reading and writing to these girls,” he told her. “So we can start by giving you a teaching position—temporarily, of course—here at Urania Cottage.”
A wave of relief washed over Sophy. She looked at the two seated women, knowing that their recommendation had convinced Dickens. “I am grateful for the opportunity.”
“Living here on the premises, you will be expected to provide more than just lessons,” he said. “Urania Cottage is a house of reformation. Our intention is not only to secure a future for these girls, but to change the way they live their lives. We do not run some grim workhouse or prison. But how you conduct yourself is of grave importance. Where you go. With whom you keep company. Abiding by rules of the house—”
There was a knock at the front door, and Dickens paused. Mrs. Brown turned in her seat and looked out the window.
“How delightful. Captain Seymour is here.”
The relief of seconds ago turned to utter panic. Sophy guessed the novelist might not consider walking to Hammersmith Village in the middle of the night appropriate conduct. Taking an oar to the side of a man’s head would be out of the question, too. And having a ghost as a confidante would seal her fate. If the Captain said anything, Sophy knew she would be on the street in an instant.
“I would be happy to go over the rules with her,” Mrs. Tibbs said to the novelist. “But if you would like, perhaps Sophy could see the Captain in.”
“Yes, please do,” Miss Burdett-Coutts said.
Sophy curtsied and hurriedly left the room. Captain Seymour had just handed his hat and cloak to one of the girls in the central hall. There was no need for ceremony. Sophy grabbed the man by the arm and pulled him into a room across the way, closing the door.
“What is it?” he asked, concern evident in his face.
“Mr. Dickens has just offered me a tutoring position here,” she whispered quickly. “So please, Captain. Do not mention last night.”
“Are you asking me not to share an escapade that Dickens would surely appreciate, one complete with physical combat and the rescue of a dozen unfortunate women and children?”
“You can share whatever you wish, so long as you leave my name out of it entirely.”
“But I enjoy mentioning your name. Sophy, the liberator of—”
“You are playing the devil.”
“And you, miss, are enticing this devil by closing the door and pressing yourself against him in a darkened room.”
Her breath caught in Sophy’s chest. She did indeed have him pressed against the door, her hand on his chest, her face only inches away from his. She immediately took a step back, jerking her hand away as if stung. He caught hold of it before she could escape, though.
“Oh! I am sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Her words caught in her throat. His thumb caressed the palm of her hand before letting go. His dark gaze set her face on fire. She took another step back.
“Please, Captain,” she managed to say. “No mention of seeing me last night.”
“As you wish.” He gave a curt nod. “Then I believe it is safe to assume that I am not here to take you to Hammersmith Village.”
She returned the nod. “Your friends are in the parlor.”
“I know. I saw the carriage outside. Give my compliments to your guests and tell them I didn’t want to intrude on their business. Just say I stopped in to check on the woman I ran down last week.”
“Yes. And we just spoke. She is fine.”
“I can see that. In fact, she is far more than fine.” His gaze traveled from her face down to the hem of her dress.
Sophy’s face burned even hotter. “Now you should go.”
“I should.” He studied her for a moment longer before reaching into his pocket and taking out a card. “The next time you have one of your dreams and want to go somewhere dangerous in the middle of the night, come to me first. I’ll take you there.”
Sophy stared at his outstretched hand and then hesitantly took the card.
CHAPTER 8
“Young. Brown hair. Medium height and weight. No papers. No jewelry. Oddly enough, three pence in what was left of a pocket in her skirt.” The inspector from the riverfront police station read each line from the ledger before arranging the ruler and pen next to the open book.
Whitewashed walls, neatly stacked books, tidy desk. This was a room more likely to belong to a seminarian than a river policeman.
Calmly, patiently, with no emotion evident in either voice or demeanor, the thin man stood up from the stool behind his desk and took down the ring of keys hanging from a hook on the wall.
The policeman faced the visitors. “You’re certain you wish to see the body?”
“Yes. Yes. Absolutely. I must,” John Warren said gruffly.
Peter Hodgson helped his employer up from the bench along the white brick wall. The man leaned on his stout, ivory-headed cane for support and let the policeman pass in front of him. As they followed behind, Hodgson watched Warren swing his right leg awkwardly. The stiffness in his bad knee was clearly bothering him more than usual today.
Five years ago, after taking a degree at the new Royal Polytechnic Instutution in London, Peter Hodgson had found a position with Warren & Company, a shipping firm with close ties to the
East India Company. In short time, he'd gained the trust of the London managing partner, John Warren. Today, he saw himself directly in line to take over the operations as the old man's health continued to decline.
The long, low-vaulted passageway that they entered had all the charm of a catacomb. A lantern hung on the wall, casting a dim light on a dank corridor lined with stout cell doors set into heavy stone. Small, thickly barred windows in each cell door had been designed to let in air, but the foulness of the atmosphere in the passageway could hardly have provided much improvement. Hodgson could barely see the door that he knew they would pass through at the far end.
As soon as they entered, though, the inmates became aware of their presence, and the howling began as it always did. Hodgson moved closer to his employer as the taunting, menacing shouts and cruel remarks rang out, directed more at the inspector than at the visitors.
The smell of vomit and urine and excrement permeated the air, assaulting their senses. A few steps into the passageway, both visitors raised their handkerchiefs to their noses to avoid breathing the stench.
This was their third visit this week, but familiarity had done nothing to make the ordeal even tolerable, at least not for Hodgson.
As they passed one door, a prisoner shoved a filthy arm through the bars and tried to seize Hodgson’s coat. The young man leaped behind Mr. Warren, escaping the attack. None of this seemed to have any effect on the inspector. The man walked down the hall as if he were in deep meditation, mentally preparing a Sunday sermon, totally unfazed by the chaos.
At end of the hall, the inspector used one of the keys and opened a heavy iron-banded door. They stepped onto a slippery stone landing, and the door shut behind them, cutting off the noise. A dozen steps led up to a jailor’s yard, and another dozen led down to the vault used as a morgue.
As they descended, John Warren was the first to speak.
“When was this body found, Inspector?”
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